


Filius Est Pars Patris

by lindenmae



Series: The Highland Hound series [4]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Arthur, Kid Fic, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, very slight bloodplay, violent imagery, wolfman arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:57:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindenmae/pseuds/lindenmae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...there is Arthur, perfectly whole and practically glowing. There is blood on his skin and in his hair but it becomes apparent as soon as he looks at Eames, beaming with his fangs on display, that the blood is not his. There is a bundle of linen in his arms and it takes Eames a moment to notice the way Arthur is subtly rocking it back and forth and holding it against his heart. Then the bundle begins to cry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filius Est Pars Patris

**Author's Note:**

> This will NOT make sense without reading the other parts. This is kid!fic and also porn. Two of the best things. Before anyone asks, there is NO MPREG. I have nothing against it but I felt that handling it this way fits better with Arthur's characterization in this verse. Also this started off as a ficlet for Eternalsojourn's [Procreation Celebration Fest](http://eternalsojourn.livejournal.com/17280.html).

Eames has just returned from a scouting mission for the Emperor, looking for any remnants of clans he once belonged to. It’s a special kind of irony that he lives amongst a people once thought to be fiction while he faces the grim knowledge that _his_ people have most likely died out in his absence. He’s feeling morose already and missing Arthur terribly, but that doesn’t blind him to his surroundings. He doesn’t have the heightened senses of the Hounds, but his instincts are good and he knows when something is off. The city is still bustling with life, but the compound is quiet - the inhabitants tiptoeing about as if afraid to make a sound. They cast their gazes down when they see him, even the Hounds, and hurry out of his way. He hasn’t seen the Hounds this subdued since Cobb was attacked and Mal killed Senator Cobol. But their anger was palpable then, simmering beneath the silence. Then they were waiting to act, waiting to see if their princess was going to be punished for obeying her instincts. 

The Hounds are an emotional lot, not a species to often think before they act. It had been Arthur - their alpha male - who had kept them in line at first, until Emperor Saito made the grave mistake of putting Eames back into the arena and all Hell had broken loose. Eames doesn’t like to think back on that time, the images of Arthur sedated and caged beside Mal -bloodied and broken and all the more horrifying because he’d done the damage to himself in his rage at being separated from his mate - still haunt Eames sometimes when he closes his eyes. He still feels guilt for being grateful for the fight, for the chance to flex his muscles and prove to the citizens that being dominated before them by a Hound had not broken him, that he was not weak. He didn’t know that the people didn’t see him that way, that they had, in fact, turned him into some kind of hero when he wasn’t paying attention. In their eyes, he had tamed the beast and for that he was, is still celebrated. He didn’t know what it would do Arthur to have his mate taken from him without his permission. Eames isn’t a Hound. He can live amongst them for the rest of his life and he will, because he would never permanently leave Arthur’s side, but he’ll never truly understand their passions, their compulsions, their instincts. 

This is one of only a few missions that Eames had gone on alone. Usually Arthur comes too, but this time he had stayed behind, distracted when Eames informed him of the assignment. It’s been years since that awful day and they’ve grown confident enough in each other that they can bear to be apart for short periods of time. Eames attributed Arthur’s attitude to the end of his heat, which had been rougher than usual on the Hound who had, in turn, been strangely gentle with Eames. It was not that Arthur was usually careless with him, but on this particular occasion he had tied with Eames more times than normal and had balanced the pain of that by fucking him slowly, holding him tightly, and by cleaning Eames thoroughly with his tongue. Arthur had tied with Eames four times in a row without pulling out one evening, filling Eames to the point that his belly became distended with Arthur’s seed and when he began to protest, Arthur had petted him through it, running his hands over Eames’s sore muscles and growling low into the sweat-slicked skin of Eames’s neck. 

"Mine. You're mine. Always mine."

Recently during his heats Arthur had begun murmuring about breeding and babies as he lay tied with Eames, panting out endearments that Eames ignored in favor of concentrating on the feeling of Arthur inside of him. He assumed it was a symptom of the heat, which was logical. Arthur’s kind had already nearly died out before the Emperor found them and brought them back to the city, where they were able to flourish once it was discovered they were still human enough to procreate with the citizens. It was in Arthur’s nature to want to carry on his line, but Eames was sure he understood that it wasn’t possible unless he mated with someone else - something Arthur had made very clear would never happen.

Eames’s heart begins to pound as he tries to make it across the courtyard of the compound without running. He knows better than to let fear get the better of him amongst the Hounds who can smell it, not after the incident with Nash, but not a single Hound will look at him and he’s suddenly terrified that something has happened to Arthur. It’s obvious that something is wrong at the very least. Nash had come upon Eames while he was in the baths, half-asleep and unaware. Eames had been able to fight him off, since Nash was not an alpha and nowhere near as strong as Arthur, but it had not been easy and Arthur had been infuriated when he came upon them. It had taken an intervention by Cobb’s guards to separate the two Hounds and keep Arthur from drowning Nash in the warm water. Eames had been newly mated by Arthur then and didn’t understand the Hounds at all. His erratic heart beat when he opened his eyes to Nash leering at him had been all the invitation needed. The Emperor had told him that there had been quite a bit of inbreeding within the tribes as their numbers dwindled and Nash was a particularly bad example of it, not stupid, but brash and extremely driven by his instincts even when not in heat or threatened. He never mated and did not respect the bonds of other Hounds. Nash has kept his distance from Eames since then, but Eames has also remembered to behave like an alpha when in the company of Arthur’s kind, even though he isn’t one of them.

Now though, he walks briskly towards his rooms, desperate to see Arthur’s face and know for certain that nothing has happened. He can’t quite believe Cobb or one of his guards or Emperor Saito, himself, wouldn’t have met him at the city gates if something was wrong, but the Hounds can be fiercely protective over their own and there is a chance no humans know about it yet. He feels like his throat has closed by the time he throws open the door to the rooms he shares with Arthur, he’s so terrified of the possibilities, but there is Arthur, perfectly whole and practically glowing. There is blood on his skin and in his hair but it becomes apparent as soon he looks at Eames, beaming with his fangs on display, that the blood is not his. There is a bundle of linen in his arms and it takes Eames a moment to notice the way Arthur is subtly rocking it back and forth and holding it against his heart. Then the bundle begins to cry.

Arthur frowns at Eames before ducking his head to whisper something soothing to the cloth.

“You woke him,” he says, disappointed in his mate.

“I… what? What, exactly, did I wake?”

“Our cub,” Arthur drawls, as if Eames is dense for not understanding that inside that mound of linen was a baby. 

He’s immediately flooded with emotions and thoughts that he can’t sort through. He’s surprised, of course, and confused because he’s only been gone a fortnight and there was no baby when he left. Then there’s anger because he’s a man and Arthur is also and they did not have this baby together, it isn’t theirs. Arthur must see something of Eames’s anger and confusion written on his face the next second when he looks up, because he cocks his head to the side and squints like he doesn’t understand, then it all seems to come together for him and he smiles again. 

“I took him,” he says proudly, as if that should explain everything.

“You stole a baby?”

There have been many misunderstandings between them because they are, technically, a different species and two Hounds will always understand each other in a way that a human cannot, but it’s been years since Arthur first took him down in the arena and Eames thought that their connection had grown so strong that Arthur couldn’t confuse him anymore. But now Arthur’s just admitted to stealing a baby and Eames is very confused and a little horrified. 

“I didn’t steal him,” Arthur growls, rocking the bundle a little more earnestly when it begins to wail in response to his agitation. Arthur is sitting cross-legged on their bed with just a thin piece of linen wrapped around his narrow hips and normally Eames would be tempted to tumble him despite still being a bit sore, but there is a baby in Arthur’s arms and Eames doesn’t know who it belongs to.

“Is he yours?” Eames asks even though he’s afraid of the answer. In the back of his mind he’d thought he might understand if Arthur ever decided to bed a female for the sake of a child, but now that he’s faced with the idea, he finds he absolutely does not. Arthur is his and he is Arthur's and no one else's.

Arthur screws his face up like Eames is some kind of idiot for even suggesting the idea, and that settles the drumbeat in Eames’s chest just a little bit.

“Of course he isn’t. You can’t get pregnant, Eames. He can’t be mine.”

Arthur’s logic isn’t exactly sound, but it puts Eames at ease. “Then whose is he, Arthur?”

Arthur sighs, exasperated. “He’s ours. I took him for us and that makes him ours. Now come here.”

Eames hesitates until Arthur shows a hint of a snarl, then he takes a slow step towards the bed and the stolen baby that Arthur probably expects him to hold. He’s still only halfway there when there are footsteps on the marble behind him and Yusuf comes striding into their bedroom with no announcement. Arthur begins to growl and clutches the baby tightly to his chest.

“You may growl at me all you like, Arthur, but he needs to eat and Mal is the only female producing milk in the compound at the moment. You’ll have to move closer to the nursery if he is to feed at regular intervals unless one of the two of you begins lactating. And I don’t think it will be you,” Yusuf sniffs, eyeing Arthur’s flat chest and tiny nipples. He looks at Eames, whose chest is covered by a threadbare cotton tunic, but his nipples are distinctly prominent even beneath the cloth. “Perhaps you,” he says, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

Eames takes a step back towards the doorway, ready to flee. “Yusuf, why are you acting as if it is alright that Arthur has stolen someone’s child?”

“Hmm?” Yusuf mutters, still eyeing Eames’s chest. “Because he hasn’t stolen him. The mother died during the birth.”

“And what about the father?” Eames persists.

“Nash would have killed him,” Arthur growls. “So I took him.”

“Did you kill Nash, Arthur?” Eames wouldn’t actually be too disappointed to hear it if he has.

“I broke his nose,” Arthur snorts, “and his arm.”

“And his collarbone,” Yusuf adds. “It’s not that uncommon, Eames. Do calm down. Nash isn’t fit to raise a cub. He might have tried to kill the boy even had the mother survived. Arthur can’t have cubs of his own because you’re both male but he’s an alpha and inclined to be paternal. It’s only natural he felt protective of the cub and saved him from his father.”

“ _We’re_ his fathers,” Arthur growls.

“Yes, now you are. There’s very little chance of Nash trying to claim the child now that Arthur has and they’re half-brothers, so there’s a very good possibility the boy will end up resembling Arthur anyway.”

That seems to calm Arthur down and he returns to rocking the child in his arms happily, smiling and cooing at the little bundle in a way that is so entirely unlike him that Eames is honestly a bit worried the Hound may have lost his mind again while Eames was gone.

“Do you really think Eames will be able to suckle him,” Arthur asks suddenly, not looking up from the baby. His dimples are on full display. It’s always surprising to Eames how soft and innocent they look creasing his cheeks right next to his knife-sharp fangs.

“No!” Eames protests at the same time that Yusuf says, “It’s uncommon but entirely possible.”

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it, Eames?” Arthur asks softly and when he looks up at Eames his eyes are hooded and he looks so happy and Eames does not think it would be particularly nice, but he can’t say no to Arthur. 

Thankfully he doesn’t have to because the baby, who has been alternately whimpering and crying since Eames burst through the door, begins to scream in earnest now.

“He’s most likely hungry,” Yusuf says then, busying himself by gathering blankets from a chest in the corner of their room. “We’ll need to get down to the nursery. I’ll create a formula for him that we can use to supplement natural milk so that Mal’s cub doesn’t end up weaker for having to share.”

With that, Yusuf bustles out the door, not even looking over his shoulder to make sure that they’re following. Eames is still at a loss, still hasn’t even looked at the child properly. He never thought Arthur meant any of what he said about wanting a baby, never thought he would leave one day and come back to Arthur having taken one. But in reality nothing has gone how Eames might have anticipated since he set foot in the city. He found out the Highland Hounds were real only moments before he was being mated by one and he didn’t think he would ever fall in love with anyone but he has, madly in love, and now this. He doesn’t know how he feels about having fatherhood sprung on him, but it isn’t going to change now. Arthur is the most stubborn creature Eames has ever encountered. He’s claimed this baby as his and anything that is Arthur’s is Eames’s as well.

“Take him,” Arthur commands suddenly, rising from the bed and holding the bundle out to Eames. When Eames doesn’t take it from him immediately, Arthur lets loose a quick growl, impatient. So Eames reaches for the writhing, screaming bundle and once he’s taken him, Arthur slips off the bed, content, and strides easily out of the room, half-naked and splattered with blood that isn’t his. Eames silently marvels at the awkward times that Arthur is still able to take his breath away.

Eames finally looks at the tiny creature that can make Arthur smile so widely, this little thing that is supposed to be his now. He is impossibly fragile and red in the cheeks from the effort of screaming his little lungs out. Eames lodges the bundle firmly in the crook of one elbow and brings a finger up to the baby's mouth to give him something to suck on until he can latch onto a teat. He quiets immediately, lips closing around the tip of Eames's finger. He's warm and fits perfectly against Eames's chest and Eames suddenly, desperately, never wants to let him go. There is a shock of thin, brown hair curling atop the baby’s head and when he opens his eyes, they are large and dark brown and nearly identical to Arthur’s. Eames’s heart skips a beat the second the cub looks at him, eyes blurry with tears and saliva dribbling from his toothless mouth and Eames understands why Arthur took him, why Arthur would protect him. Because he is so vulnerable and so lovely and without them, without his fathers, he could never survive.

"Eames!"

Arthur is standing in the open air of the courtyard, arms crossed over his lean chest, the lines of his strong thighs almost visible beneath through the thin material draped over his hips.

"Eames, come here. Bring me my cub."

"Our cub, Arthur," Eames amends softly.

Arthur grins, reaching out as Eames approaches to run the pads of his fingers over Eames's shoulders and his collarbone and then his neck. Arthur is always so tactile and it sends a shiver down his spine. He looks at his Hound and purses his lips when Arthur's fingertips press against them, his Hound who nearly killed his own brother to save this baby so that they could have a child, whose skin is still mottled with the blood of his brother and the poor mother and who Eames loves impossibly, and the baby begins wailing again between them. 

…

Connor growls at him from the floor, clapping his chubby hands and rolling onto his back with a complete lack of grace. His little baby teeth are sharp when he smiles. Eames has enough cuts on his skin to prove it. Connor’s eyes are dark brown like Arthur’s and his hair is growing in black tufts on the top of his head. Yusuf was right; Connor will look just like Arthur when he is grown. Eames can already see it. 

Eames pokes Connor’s soft tummy with his index finger until the baby is shrieking with delight, trying to claw at his father’s arm with nails that aren’t even as sharp as a cat’s. Connor laughs happily, grabbing for Eames’s hand so he can chew on Eames’s fingertips. Eames winces but doesn’t pull away. His baby’s eyes are sparkling and Eames can’t bear to dampen that, even at the expense of his poor human flesh. 

When Connor finally loses interest, he rolls over onto his stomach and lets Eames’s fingers fall from his mouth in favor of clumsily hunting after a mouse that has scurried into a corner and out of sight. Connor coos in frustration when he can’t catch it, but before his coos can turn into cries, Arthur strides into the room and all of Connor’s attention is focused immediately on his father. His face lights up in a way that never fails to make Eames’s heart stop and he reaches for Arthur, squealing like a stuck pig. Arthur’s smile is something rare as well, something impossibly soft on a face as sharp as the Hound’s. He sweeps Connor into his arms and cuddles him close, nuzzling his face into the baby’s neck and breathing deeply. 

Arthur tilts his head sharply, not pulling his face away from the baby completely, but suddenly aware of a different scent in the air. Connor pushes his face into Arthur’s, leaving a smear of bloody drool across Arthur’s smooth cheek. It puts Eames at ease in a strange way, to see Arthur’s pale skin streaked red. Things have been calm in the months since Connor came into their lives and, while it’s been nice to be certain, there is something about Arthur at his basest, with his hair wild and his fangs out, that reminds Eames of how their lives got to this point. His violent and vicious Hound plants a wet kiss on their baby’s shoulder and Eames wants him more then, than he ever has, which is impossible because he always wants Arthur.

“Did you play too rough with Papa?” Arthur asks Connor’s shoulder and the baby giggles, displaying red-stained teeth. 

“Just a scratch,” Eames mutters, inspecting his fingers. They’re bleeding, yes, but it’s nothing. He survived years in the arena and half his life before that stealing from soldiers with swords ready to be pointed at his throat. Arthur half killed him when they first met. Connor can’t hurt him… yet.

There’s a knock on the wall and a girl enters, her eyes trained on the floor. Eames recognizes her only as one of Yusuf’s daughters, one of the youngest with dark curls and big eyes. 

“Shall I take him?” She asks softly, her eyes flicking upward for just a moment. Connor is old enough he doesn’t need to suckle from Mal any longer but he is beyond besotted  
with his cousin Phillipa and sleeps the soundest when they have been allowed to play like puppies.

Arthur looks reluctant to give Connor up, but when his eyes catch Eames’s they turn hungry. Eames sucks the tip of one bloody finger into his mouth and the points of Arthur’s canines peek out from behind his upper lip. 

“Do you want to play with Pippa, Pet?” Eames calls out from the floor where he is still sitting, his back against his and Arthur’s bed. Connor’s eyes get wide and he keens, more likely in response to the tone of voice Eames used than recognition of Phillipa’s name. But Connor does love his cousin and Eames is convinced his baby is brilliant, so anything could be. Eames swirls his tongue around the tip of his finger, his eyes on Arthur. His tongue comes away with the taste of copper on it and Arthur’s pupils blow.

Arthur hands Connor over, hands hesitating on the baby’s bottom and back. But he lets the girl take Connor into her arms, only hovering slightly. Eames is constantly amazed at how Arthur coddles Connor now. It’s a side of the Hound that Eames never expected to see because he didn’t think it existed. He’s used to Arthur half-naked and covered in blood after a fight, either for fun or for more unfortunate reasons. Arthur is a slave to his instincts, yes, and these paternal instincts to protect an innocent and vulnerable child that isn’t biologically his are just another facet of the Hound that Eames has become aware of over time. Arthur is fluid. Eames continues to expect him to be one way, to fulfill the images Eames had in his head of the Hounds and their brutal blood thirsts, and Arthur does do that. His claws come out at the drop of a pin and he is quick to act and never regrets, but he is kind and he is caring and he loves wholly and unconditionally. Arthur loves Connor, doesn’t accept that Connor is not his child, doesn’t believe there’s anything he can’t have. 

Arthur won’t always be so soft with the boy. It’s not in him to be soft with anything all of the time, not even the things he loves. Connor will get older and Arthur will mold him in one way, will teach him what it means to be a Hound and Eames will teach him other things, about the parts of him that are human and how to function as a citizen of The City and not just The Compound. They’ll raise this child together and he will be the best of them, Eames knows that as truly as he knows he loves Arthur.  
Arthur can be soft with Connor but there has to be something sharp to balance him out. That role falls to Eames and he steps into it willingly. He takes the claws and the fangs and the fight from both his lover and his son because that’s what they need of him and that’s who _he_ is. 

“Arthur,” Eames calls softly, dragging his still bleeding fingers over his tongue and his bottom lip and his chin, until his face is striped in red. 

Arthur lets the girl out of the room finally - their little boy clutched safely in her arms - and turns to the bed, his expression sharp. His upper lip curls up on one side, exposing a pointed canine. His eyes glint when the sunlight streaming through the open window hits them and Eames’s heart skips. Arthur is beautiful, gets only more beautiful as time passes. It’s the animal in him, Eames thinks. Arthur was half feral when Eames first encountered him. He has himself under control now that’s he’s older, now that he’s grounded and has a family, but every so often there is a glimpse of that wild creature that pinned Eames in the arena and it starts Eames’s blood pumping.

Arthur advances with determination, his body taught, lines long and lean. He’s wearing only the soft leather pants he favors, slung low on his slim hips, feet bare. His hair is wet and slicked back against his head like he’s just come from the baths. A shame Eames plans to dirty him again. Eames sits up, rolling onto his knees, presenting Arthur with a challenge. That’s what the Hound needs – something to scratch his claws against, someone to fight. 

Eames doesn’t let Arthur get too close before he reaches out, curling his fingers around the nape of Arthur’s neck and pulling him in. He crushes their mouths together _hard_ , not giving Arthur any slack to pull away, not that he’d want to. Arthur goes with Eames’s momentum, crashing into him, but doesn’t soften. He’s ready for a tussle and Eames is prepared to give him one. Arthur bites at Eames’s lips, digging his fangs in until he draws blood then he laps it away with the tip of his tongue like a kitten. Eames tightens his grip on Arthur’s nape and moves suddenly, throwing them both over. He uses his weight and bulk as leverage, pinning Arthur down into the blankets.

Arthur surges up, fighting against Eames’s pin but Eames doesn’t let go. Eames knows Arthur’s tells and ticks and the way he moves, and he knows how to keep him place. Arthur growls, a rumble in his throat, and Eames chuckles. Eames palms Arthur’s thigh with his free hand, pulls away from Arthur’s mouth to nip at his collarbone. He flattens his tongue against Arthur’s throat and digs his teeth in, licking and sucking at his pulse point and making him whine. 

Arthur’s like a bowstring pulled taut, spine bent against the bed, head thrown back. Eames trails his hand up Arthur’s leg to his hip, fingers brushing at the laces keeping leather closed over Arthur’s groin. The laces are straining, desperate to be undone, so Eames obliges. Arthur’s claws prick at his back, probably drawing blood, but Eames can hardly spare a thought to care. He undoes the laces with deft fingers and forces his knuckles to relax against Arthur’s neck, pulling away to sit up and look down at the man panting beneath him. With his fingertips, Eames follows the flush crawling over Arthur’s chest, beginning beneath his pants where the leather has been peeled away from his skin. Eames traces a nipple and pinches the bud just to see Arthur squirm. 

The leggings come away slowly, the leather sticking to Arthur’s sweaty skin. It leaves Arthur’s legs an angry red. There’s only so much time Eames can spend on divesting Arthur of his clothing before the Hound will become impatient and take control. That’s not what Eames wants this time. He holds Arthur down with a palm flat against his chest until he’s throwing the leggings across the room and Arthur is bare before him. Before Arthur can think about switching their positions, Eames wraps his fingers around Arthur’s cock, causing the man to buck and drive his shaft through the circle of Eames’s fist. 

Arthur wraps his legs around Eames’s hips, still swathed in the fine linen he prefers. It is hot in The City and Eames doesn’t like to cover himself any more than he has to. He has picked up some traits of the Hounds if he must admit it. Arthur claws at the cloth covering Eames’s thighs, ripping holes in the fabric. 

“Do you know what seeing you with our cub does to me, Arthur? Do you have any idea?” Eames whispers, voice thick. 

Arthur smiles, a lazy thing with only a hint of tooth. His hair is fanned out on the pillow beneath his head, the black curls stark against the white bedding. His expression is soft though the rest of him is still pulled tight, his claws digging into Eames’s skin any place he can reach. Eames will take note of all the cuts and scratches later while he bathes. The water will make them sting and inflame and he’ll delight in them all over again. This is what Arthur has done to him, turned him into a glutton for pain. 

Eames tightens his grip around Arthur’s cock just to hear Arthur’s breathy gasp and he knows the smile on his own face is predatory. 

“You love him,” Arthur breathes, not a question.

“Of course I love him. Of course I do,” Eames growls. He had been hesitant when Arthur first presented him with Connor but now he can’t imagine how he could possibly have  
questioned Arthur’s instincts. Arthur looks smug in response to Eames’s admission so Eames tugs on him hard and quick and Arthur snarls. 

There are vials of oil stashed all around their rooms, never out of reach. Once they were kept only for incidents like this when they couldn’t be separated from each other long enough to actually search for something. Arthur’s heats have calmed since Connor. They still occur but are not the violent things they used to be. The fevers and the bloodlust are gone, but their desire for each other hasn’t faded at all and it is easier to have the vials ready still. The oil is used for other things as well now – for Connor, to be rubbed into his skin to keep it soft and smooth. 

Eames keeps expecting Arthur to struggle against him, try to reverse their positions. It’s rare for Arthur to remain pliant like this, but the Hound seems happy to let Eames coat his fingers in oil and slip them between Arthur’s legs, circling his hole with just the pads of his fingers at first. Arthur smiles wide, fangs showing and spreads his legs wider, heels digging into Eames’s back. The ring of muscle gives easily, opening to allow Eames’ fingertips to slip inside, two at a time. 

Arthur snarls and surges up, stomach clenching as he uses only the strength of his own body for leverage. Eames hisses as Arthur’s claws dislodge from his legs, leaving bloody crescents in their place. Arthur snakes his arms around Eames’s neck and he rolls his hips against Eames’s, Eames’s own knuckles digging into his stomach where his fingers are still wrapped around Arthur’s cock. The movement causes Eames’s fingers to slip further inside Arthur, eliciting a low growl from deep in Arthur’s throat. It rumbles beneath his ribcage making him vibrate against Eames’s chest. 

Arthur is warm and silky soft inside, tight around Eames’s fingers because they don’t do this often. Arthur doesn’t usually have the patience for it, to wait for Eames to open him up enough to fit inside him. It works for them sometimes, because Arthur does like pain, but usually it’s not enough. Arthur can’t wait, doesn’t like to let someone else have control for longer than a moment. But this is clearly one of those times that Arthur can let go, not completely, but enough. Eames has two fingers buried up to the knuckle, a third working its way in. Arthur squirms against him until Eames wraps his free hand around the nape of Arthur’s neck again, squeezing until Arthur calms with a gasp of breath that burns hot against Eames’s shoulder. Arthur drops his head like he’s going pliant but it’s a feint. Eames is ready for it when Arthur sinks his fangs into the meat of Eames’s deltoid, but being ready doesn’t stop him from shouting.

“Bastard,” he grits, teeth clenched. He forces the third finger alongside the other two in revenge and takes a sadistic pleasure in the way Arthur jumps but doesn’t try to get away. Eames can feel the blood running in rivulets down his arm but he can also feel Arthur’s tongue working against the wounds, lapping the blood up as it bubbles out. 

It doesn’t take much more than three fingers before Arthur is squirming again, ready for more. He’s growling into the crook of Eames’s neck, mouthing dangerously at the straining tendons there, whispering nonsense that no one but Eames could hope to understand. It’s gibberish but Eames knows what’s being said, _mine_ and _yes_ and _forever_. 

Eames pulls his fingers away with a slick squelch and the Hound mews like a kitten. It startles a laugh out of Eames and Arthur lifts his head and curls his upper lip at his lover in indignation.

“Ho, no you don’t,” Eames chuckles. “You live with the sound you made. It’s alright, Arthur. I haven’t told anyone how sweet you are yet. I’ll let the world believe you’re as terrifying as you like to think a little longer.”

Arthur growls, eyes flashing red, but Eames kisses him quiet, hugging him until he goes boneless in Eames’s arms. His linen trousers have slipped low on his hips already, it’s just a bit of adjusting to get his cock out and nudge the head against Arthur’s hole. Arthur huffs in surprise, but bears down against the intrusion even though he isn’t quite stretched enough. 

There’s not much about each other’s bodies they don’t know and Eames knows now he isn’t hurting Arthur truly. The bit of pain he is experiencing will only enhance the pleasure ultimately and Arthur wouldn’t have it any other way. Any time that Eames has attempted to be light with Arthur, to take his time, Arthur has flipped their positions. The Hounds are not a patient kind. So Eames pushes in past Arthur’s hiss and he goes slowly but still too quickly for Arthur to adjust. Arthur is still panting once Eames’s hips are pressed flush against his reddened skin, but he’s smiling as well. It’s at once slightly feral and a lot content. 

Arthur licks his lips and rolls his hips, heels digging into the small of Eames’s back, urging him further inside. Eames can’t quite hold back the moan that movement elicits, Arthur clenching around him like a vise. The flush has crept all the way across Arthur’s chest now, turning his skin a pretty shade of pink. It begs to be tasted, so Eames leans down and licks a stripe from one of Arthur’s pert little nipples to the other. Arthur’s chest is not quite the erogenous zone that Eames’s is but he gets a huff from Arthur anyway, a breath he can feel against his hair. He takes a moment to nip at one nipple, just hard enough to make Arthur jolt, and before Arthur can get over the sensation, Eames rocks his hips and pulls almost all the way out. 

Eames doesn’t give Arthur the chance to whine before he slams back in, so forcefully it shoves Arthur higher up on the bed, his shoulders pressing the pillows against the wall. This is how Arthur likes it, the wild animal that Arthur truly is deep inside. He likes taking more than being taken but if Eames can make it rough enough then this coupling will leave Arthur boneless and sated and Arthur will curl around him and cry out in protest if Eames moves even to clean them off. Arthur’s claws find purchase in the meat of Eames’s upper back and dig in and Eames’s ignores the sting. He leans down when Arthur pulls and lets Arthur press their mouths together, tongue searching, prying Eames’s lips apart without stuttering even as Eames continues to snap his hips sharply, filling Arthur with every thrust. 

Sometimes Eames believes that if Arthur could cut him open and climb inside he would, if only they could be that close. They will never be connected like two Hounds would but they don’t need it. There is not another person in the world that Eames would rather kiss or touch or raise a child with. The way Arthur loves is different from Eames, on a different level but Eames’s love is no less fierce. It shows when they’re like this, when Arthur lets Eames take care of him like this, fill him like this. His life could have taken another path. He could have never left the hills where he was raised, could have never lifted the purse of that one soldier who finally caught him and would have never ended up in the arena. Eames can’t find it in himself to regret any of it. The entirety of his clan may very well be dead by now, but Eames has Arthur and now he has Connor and he has the respect of the Citizens. 

With total happiness overwhelming and making his heart swell, Eames slams into Arthur one last time, hunching his shoulders and tensing with his orgasm. Arthur’s back bows with a sharp inhale and his claws slice open Eames’s skin as he tries to rut against Eames’s stomach and find completion.

“Come on, come on, _come on_ ,” Arthur begs. “ _Please_.”

It’s too pretty to ignore, and even though Eames’s limbs feel weak and worthless he musters the energy to work a hand between their sweaty bodies and wrap around Arthur’s cock. It doesn’t take much. Arthur’s cock is swollen and hot to the touch and when Eames squeezes Arthur keens and comes in long ropes that paint Eames’s chest and drip over his knuckles. He brings his fingers up to lick, just to see Arthur grin. The hunger is still in his eyes but Eames is too spent to do anything more than flop down on top of Arthur and hug the Hound tightly, not quite pulling out. He’ll go soft in a second, but for now he stays inside, keeping Arthur filled the way Arthur has done to him so many times. 

They curl together in this space that is only theirs, Eames content to nap until Arthur decides he is ready to go again. It’s not a question of if but when because the Hound is never entirely satisfied. Connor will be content to play for a few more hours yet under the watchful eye of the Queen of the Hounds and when he’s returned to them, Arthur will curl around them both protectively, lest anything think to threaten their little family. It’s perfect and Eames dozes comfortably, knowing there is no threat in the world strong enough to tear them apart.

**Author's Note:**

> I may write an interlude explaining Eames searching out his clan and realizing that something has happened to them but for the most part, Arthur and Eames's story is done. There is the possibility of continuation that explains what happened to Eames's clan but it isn't Eames's story. It would require another fandom and pairing *cough*Sterek because that's where my head is at right now*cough* be brought into this verse and I'm not certain how many people would be interested in reading that. If you are let me know, otherwise I am perfectly content to let this series end here. 
> 
> Connor means lover of hounds.


End file.
